Fire
by Zephyr Wyndrose
Summary: AU: Anna is one of the Itako, slaves to the Shamans. Yet, when Anna is called to be Handmaiden to the Shaman King, she realizes there is more to her people than she ever imagined. [YohAnna]
1. Prologue: The Dreamer

**DISCLAIMER**:

Roses are Red,

Violets are Blue,

Mankin no mine,

So you no sue.

(Isn't it cute? If you know who this rhyme belongs to, please tell me so I can give credit!)

_This is a parody of Sherryl Jordan's novel Winter of Fire. Plot belongs to Sherryl Jordan; characters belong to Hiroyuki Takei-sensei. Anna belongs to Yoh, Yoh belongs to me…jkjk. _

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Fire

Written by Zephyr Wyndrose

Prologue: The Dreamer

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I have always admired the power of fire, ever since I was small. It is deadly when untamed, but when controlled, it is a vital source of energy for the humans.

I remember how, when I was younger, I had stared with childlike wonder at the dancing red flames from my mother's lap. My mother had been trying to sing me to sleep, but I had been too mesmerized by the fire. My hand instinctively reached out to touch the fire, but my elder brother had slapped it away, scolding me for being so careless.

That memory is most prominent in my mind, because it was the night before I was branded.

I am a daughter of the Itako, the forbidden race of people of the Patch. My people are slaves to the Shamans, the superior race of warriors connected to the Great Spirit. The Itako are considered lowly, unworthy of the Shamans because we do not have the ability to communicate with spirits, nor can we perform the techniques that allow them to bond with spirits.

The brand of the Itako is something the Patch Tribe Council came up with to separate the Itako from the Shamans. The day I was branded is plagued in my memory just as the brand on the back of my right hand is seared into my skin.

I had been only five years old then. It was the custom to have a child branded at the age of five, but I had not known that. The rest of the five-year-olds I played with did not know either, because when the cart came to pick us up, we all boarded the rickety wooden cart, laughing like it was another silly game.

I, however, sensed trickery. I had seen the brands on the hands of by family, and I had even asked my _onii-chan_ once how he had gotten the mark. His reaction, however, was unexpected. My _onii-chan_ was popular among our people for being a smiling, carefree boy: he had an infinite sense of humor and always managed to make me smile, even when I was crying.

His features turned dark for a moment, and then pulled me into a tight embrace. He whispered for me to be strong, to be brave and not falter. I did not understand, but I did not ask either.

I should have asked. As I rode on the cart, I stared at the Shamans who escorted us. They were large burly men with dark features and beady eyes, and glared at us if we so much as talked. I remember that one boy asked if he could go to the bathroom: he was smacked upside the head with a resounding _thud_, and I saw dark red blood trickle down his neck. Then I heard the other escorts laughing riotously and speaking fast in a language I could not understand.

I redirected my attention to the five Itako pulling the cart. I felt a sting of pain for them as I saw their bodies. They were harnessed like horses to the cart, and their emaciated bodies seemed to shudder every time they took a step down the path. I noticed that the road was rocky, covered with gravel and occasionally, thorns from nearby bushes. Their feet were bloody and heavily callused, their grey skin rubbed raw from the sinew yoke.

I remember one person most vividly: she was the only girl among the Itako pulling the cart, and hauled the most weight of the five. Her face was emotionless, though her eyes were full of determination and strength. I continued to stare at her for a few moments, until she looked at me with those fiery eyes.

For one split second, it seemed she was smiling at me with elder-sisterly warmth. Then, out of nowhere, a long whip snapped on her left shoulder. The Shaman closest to the girl was shouting something in that strange language, and his companion replied something in a sarcastic manner.

I felt fury and defiance rise in me as I leapt up, grabbing the Shaman by his expensive fur coat and sinking my teeth in his fleshy arm.

He howled in pain and tried to shake me off. His companion yelled and his whip snapped out again, missing me the first time. The second time though, I felt a searing pain down my back and released the Shaman, dropping back into the cart with his blood dripping down my chin.

His eyes were mad with fury as he advanced on me, one hand on the large truncheon hanging from his belt. The other Shaman held him back, shouting something I took as a warning. I did not feel any fear, but anger and satisfaction. His red blood was prize enough for me.

The cart was stopped, and the Shaman was given bandages and ointment to treat his wound. The children were huddled in fear, grasping each other for comfort.

I wiped my mouth with my wrist and looked back at the kind-eyed girl. She was standing with her back hunched and her arms slack. She looked at me again, making sure the escorts were not looking. Then she gave me that illusion of a smile again and spoke in a soft voice I could have mistaken for the passing wind.

"They cannot put a brand on your soul, lionheart," she whispered with her ashen lips. "I am called Jun. What are you known by?"

I hesitated, but opened my mouth to reply. However, before I could make any sound, the Shamans returned and we continued on our journey.

That day I made my first friend, and it was the strength that she gave me that day that helped me survive the whole ordeal. The brander was a thin old man with a wicked smile and his hands forever glued to the branding pole. I heard screams of pain as I neared the tent, and when it was my turn, I looked to my new friend Jun for comfort.

She wasn't allowed to look at me, but I think she understood. I entered that tent knowing that I would exit a true Itako.

The branding iron glowed a bright reddish orange when I stepped in. I felt my stomach lurch and gulped. He gave me a toothy grin, like a child, and asked me for my right hand. I gave it unwillingly, and I felt the heat nearing my hand when I turned away, biting my teeth and closing my eyes.

The pain was unbearable. It took every bit of my willpower to refrain from screaming, but to no avail. It seemed that the brander was taking his time, letting the white-hot iron sit on my hand until I screamed. I could not comprehend this clearly though: every nerve in my body, even the ones on my feet, was on fire. I do not know if I cried out or not.

It seemed like an eternity before he lifted the iron. My eyes were overflowing with tears that I swallowed. I was suddenly thirsty, my throat parched. I opened my eyes, and although my vision was blurry, I could see the outlines on his face. He gazed at me for exactly one second with a look of amazement, and then shifted his gaze back to the coals that heated his weapon of prejudice.

I exited the tent with shaky legs and tears still streaming down my face. When I looked up, the welcome sight of Jun's face greeted me. She looked at me with that silent knowledge of hers and gave me a slight nod.

On the journey back, when the Shamans were not looking, I told her the name my parents gave me and shared with her a smile between friends.

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Now, as I look at my homeland, I feel anger at the Shamans. Whenever I work in the mines, I see the towering Shaman homes, made of wood, brick, and stone. I seethe silently in anger at them, at their luxurious houses, expensive clothes, and elegant banquets. I see the grey smoke climbing out of their chimneys, borne from the labor of our work: this is what burns at me most of all.

The area in which we live in is a cold, desolate mountain crevice. Our mine is often referred to as Siranjaro, but I am not sure. We Itako mine for the firestones, the source of warmth and heat that is locked within the mountains. The firestone is blackish red, and if held up to light you could see liquid fuel. Of course, all of our best firestones are given to the Shamans. The Itakos that live in the mines are given meager portions: the firestones have very little fuel and are usually taken from the garbage of our masters.

Even so, out of all the Shamans, there is one I love. My people have no name for him, but simply call him the ruler of all Shamans, the Shaman King. I have heard mythical stories of him, how he is God's vessel of power on Earth and the Messiah, one who can touch fire without being burned.

As a child, my father told me stories of the Shaman King, how the civilizations before us collapsed, conquered by their own greed, and how the world fell into perpetual winter. He enchanted me with tales of how, after all the humans had died out, the Shaman King saved the world by seeking the wisdom of the Great Spirits. The Great Spirits had told the Shaman King of a hidden fuel in the mountains, the firestone, and the potential of its energy.

I had smiled, captivated, with child-like wonder at the feats of a man I had never known. Back then, I had not known of the cruelty of the Shaman race, or the oppression of my people.

"And then? Then what happened, 'tou-chan?" I remembered prodding the answer from my father. I pulled at his clothes and his hair relentlessly until he finally laughed and continued with his story.

"The Shaman King became the ruler of all those who survived the Great Winter, and is still ruling over us today."

I did not see the sad flicker in his eyes as he said this, because I was too young to understand. I paused to a moment before asking another of the many questions in my head.

"Wow! So that means he's…he's…" I tried to do the math in my head.

My father laughed and replied "About a thousand years old,"

A thousand years…that seemed like such a long time to me. The Shaman King was immortal, or so they said. His appearance was that of a young man's, they said. He was a very handsome man, the most powerful Shaman of them all.

I had only been a child then. I am an adult now.

Well, almost. I am almost sixteen, the age at which a woman of the Itako must wed. My _onii-chan_ frowns at the prospect of this, but I am willing. If I marry, my husband's family will provide the support that my ill mother needs. She had always been a sickly woman, and after giving birth to my brother and me, her body had begun to age rapidly. She is still young, about five-and-thirty, but her face is that of an old woman. I hope they will allow her to become a caretaker soon: the caretakers care for the younger, unbranded children while the others are at work. My mother had always loved children: it would be a good job for her.

The rest of my people are the same. When I look around, I see thin skeletons moving around with heavy burdens on their backs. We do not get enough food, and yet we are the ones that grow the food. My people receive one stalk of wheat of a hundred, even though my people's race outnumbers the Shamans ten to one. They hold their lavish feasts every week, with bright lights and foods that we Itako have never seen.

Those lights…they blind my eyes every time I see them. Not because they are too bright, but because my eyes always swell with tears. Those lights are unnecessary, and the firestones used to fuel them could be used to warm my freezing people. And yet, the Shamans, basking in their false realities, do not hear us.

It was my dream of dreams to tear down the curtain of prejudice and slavery that separates our people. I have had wild dreams of freedom, of a world without prejudice, and a world where there was no cold. My father calls these dreams silly: I think otherwise.

My dreams have been getting stronger lately. My visions come to me in greater detail, and I begin to fear and anticipate great change. My dreams tell of an impossible future, one so profound that I dare not believe.

Inevitability is something I have come to know: if my dreams are truly to come to pass, then I fear the future of my people, and the consequences of my actions.

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Prologue: Finished July 23, 2006

I know it's boring, but please read on! It'll get better later!

Just press that little purple button down there...yes, that's right...


	2. Chapter One: The Summoning

Fire

Written by Zephyr Wyndrose

Chapter One: The Summoning

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She was having another one of her dreams again.

That black curtain…yes, she recognized it. She had seen it before, many times…

But where?

Her mind was a total blank. Her hands reached out for the black cloth. It was soft, like cotton, only heavier. She felt…happy. Like a burden was lifted.

Why?

She did not know. Her hand, she noticed, seemed clean. White, almost, like the skin of the Shamans. Even her brand, on the back of her right hand, seemed cleaner and whiter than she had ever seen it. She almost chuckled, remembering that her hands were in reality black and dusty from working in the mines.

She lifted her other hand, her left hand, and saw that it was the same as her other, clean and white: even her nails were cut.

Then she noticed something else. On her left hand, there was something she did not recognize. A gold something, glinting in the dim light. It felt heavy on her fourth finger and she realized it must have been real gold.

There were inscriptions on it; words that she felt were familiar yet unfamiliar.

She brought her hand closer to her face, her eyes narrowing to read the flowing handwriting…

XXXXXXXX

Her eyes opened, adjusting to the light in her tent. She groaned softly and turned around, only to find herself breathing into a solid wall of warmth.

She nearly smiled. Her brother mumbled something and tightened his hold on his younger sister, subconsciously pulling the small goatskin blanket off his own body and wrapping it about her smaller frame.

The flame in the firestone pit flickered dangerously. She sat up, reaching over her brother's form and gingerly removing an empty firestone. It was a clear blackish red, and it felt cool to her touch. She tossed it into the fire and listened to the fire crackle.

_"Father?"_

_Her father's strong arms opened for her and she climbed into them, her small hands grasping the goatskin shirt. The cloth was rough and uncomfortable, but her skin was already used to it. She picked up a firestone and examined it closely, her keen dark eyes narrowed._

_"Why are firestones black?"_

_Her father smiled and ruffled her dirty blonde tresses. "Well…"_

_Her mother interrupted, reprimanding her father lightly. "She has a hard day tomorrow; don't waste your time telling her stories,"_

_Her father laughed, his voice resounding in the tent. "Not to worry, she's a little spitfire from what I've heard. She'll have enough energy,"_

_He turned back to the little girl in his arms. "A long time ago, in the First World, the mountains were filled with something called oil. The mountains also had water, and when the water mixed with oil, the oil would separate into little bubbles."_

_"Little bubbles?" She repeated. _

_"Yes, that's right. During the Great Winter, the water froze, and inside the water were the oil bubbles. So when we grown-ups look for firestones, we look for pieces of frozen water with oil inside,"_

She smiled at the memory. She picked up another firestone and moved it between her fingers. The warmth of her fingers seemed to melt the ice, because stains of oil began to color her fingers. She threw that piece into the fire, watching as the water became steam and warmed the room.

Her brother's arm was heavy around her waist, and she removed it. She grabbed a wooden bowl and a handful of snow from outside the tent. She placed it near the fire and watched as the ice melted away within seconds. She sprinkled a few herbs into the water and sipped it, then drained its contents. She glanced at the symbol carved on the side and traced it with her finger.

_The lion…my family symbol._

Shaking her head, she placed the bowl next to the fire pit and left the tent.

The bitter winds pricked her bare skin as she traversed between the rows of goatskin tents. Her family was lucky: their tent leaned against the mountainside, and the harsh winter winds did not reach them. The less fortunate families had their tents blown away often, and most of the time, when the tent did hold, the winds beat upon their bodies like a constant drum.

Her destination was the tent farthest from the mines. She stood outside for a few minutes before entering.

"Jun?"

Her friend turned around and smiled. "Hello, lionheart,"

She smiled and graciously received the herb water. As she sipped it, her friend Jun smiled at her with elder sisterly warmth. "Today…"

The younger girl nodded almost shyly.

"It's my sixteenth birthday,"

Jun's smile stretched wider. "Of course. I have a gift for you, lionheart,"

She stood up and walked to a corner of her tent, which she lived in alone. There, she lifted a flat rock and revealed a hole burrowed about three feet into the ground.

When she stood up again, she was holding a bundle covered in goatskin. She walked over to her friend of eleven years and handed her the package with flourish.

"Open it,"

Her shaky hands obliged, and she felt her breath constrict when she eyed the gift. Her hands picked up a rosary, blue in color.

"Where…"

"I made it just for you."

She smiled. "But how did you get these blue beads? This color is a color that only the Shamans own,"

Jun's eyes flickered with an emotion that the younger girl could not make out. "Yes…"

She seemed to hesitate. "…Lionheart, I have to tell you something."

Her friend leaned forward, the beads clutched to her chest. "Yes?"

Jun bit her lip and opened her mouth to respond…

Her head shot up as she heard the loud gong. Jun seemed almost relieved as the blonde girl stood up again.

"I have to go…"

Jun nodded. "I'll tell you tomorrow,"

Her friend nodded in return and walked out, carefully concealing the rosary in her shirt.

"Goodbye…"

Jun waved sadly at her friend's retreating back.

"Anna…"

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I wandered back across the camping area to the mines, feeling the emptiness I feel every morning. The other Itako joined me in our dead march towards the caves. At the checkpoint we each took a basket, a pick, and a shovel and dragged them to our respective work stations.

My workplace was a small flat crevice in the mountains that only one as thin as I could fit in. I was constantly cramped, my legs unable to move. Whenever someone in the upper levels picked at the ground, dust from the firestones would fall into my mouth and my eyes. My father used to joke that when I was born, my eyes were the bluest blue he had ever seen, and that after working in the mines day after day, my eyes and my hair were as black as firestone dust.

The water that had melted from my body heat slapped against my bare skin constantly. My hair, reaching down to my waist, was tied up against my head with dirty rags. The water seeped through my clothes, cooling me in my prison.

Sometimes, when my mind was lost in work, I picked up voices from the other Itako. I heard picks thudding against the rock and people groaning as they lifted baskets of firestones onto their backs. Sometimes I heard incoherent conversations, muffled by the rock: sometimes I heard soft whispers and sounds of agony…

And sometimes, blessed times, there would be moments where there was no sound at all. I would hear the earth humming and the rock whispering. I felt as one with the rock around me, and I would feel so warm. Sometimes, I would even hear voices talking to me, speaking in a language that had been lost in the First World, telling me secrets of the civilization before us…

Then the picks would start up again, and the connection would be broken.

But those times of peace and quiet were the strength and joy in my life. I told my mother these experiences when I was a child, but she thought I was half-crazed. She did not believe me, so I told my only true friend, Jun.

I dreamt often in the darkness. I dreamt of freedom, of wings, and of someone I had never met but knew. I _knew_ this person, but I had never met him. I would chase him in my daydreams and laugh with him in my fantasies.

Perhaps destiny was watching me that day, made me dream of him more often and made me lazy. I did not know it then, but the history of my people changed because I was lazy that day.

The gong sounded again, at last. She dragged herself out; her hands groping for the last few remaining firestones scattered around her work area and dropped them into her basket. Grabbing her thin coat and boots, she lifted the basket onto her shoulders and climbed the ladder to the surface.

Once at the top, she felt her heart sink as she saw the long line. Her hands, wet from the water, began to freeze as she stepped into line and waited for her last basket to be weighed.

Not all of their baskets had to be weighed. Many Itako were trusted by the Overseer, and they were allowed to return back to camp once they finished. She, however, was one of the few that the Overseer did not trust. They were the troublesome ones, the rebellious. They had their every basket checked, their work supervised, and their actions assessed. It was ever a grief of her father's that she was one of them.

She stood behind about fifty people. Fifty silent souls, awaiting their verdicts and hoping to pass. She noticed how hopeless they all looked, and was amazed that she was the only one that questioned it.

Her attention was averted to the Chosen mansions above the mountains. Their houses were made of stone: tall, firm structures that seemed to melt into the mountainside. She felt her defiance rise up once again within her, but calmed her temper.

She then noticed the many small figures that bustled about the place. Then she remembered: today was not only a special day for her, but for them also. She saw great banners with colors she knew no names for and long, curling script that looked like strands of hair in the wind.

At last it was her turn. She hoisted her basket onto the weights and stood humbly, like a beaten woman. She did not usually stand like this, but she knew that if she disobeyed, her family would pay the same price. She had copied the poise from other women: hunched shoulders from the cold, hands folded to the back and head down in complete submission. She always felt like a fool when she did this, but she kept all her thoughts to herself.

"Harsha!"

Her bright eyes lifted a fraction of an inch. The word for female slave was directed at her. She looked at the golden embroidery on his left breast: it was forbidden to look a Shaman in the eye.

"Harsha, yesterday you brought up seven-and-twenty baskets. Today, twenty,"

Anna did not respond, though she wanted so much to. She bit her lip, holding her words back.

"Those seven will be made up,"

She did not look at his face, but she could tell where he was looking: at the air above her head. The Itako were not worthy enough to look at the faces of the Shamans, and they thought the Itako were not worthy enough to be looked upon.

"They will be made up before you begin tomorrow's work, and will be counted separately."

She felt impatience as he purposely held his breath.

"Altogether there will be four-and-thirty loads. Do you understand?"

_Four- and-thirty loads…_

Anna's eyes widened as she lifted her head higher than she intended. Four-and-thirty loads! That was a death sentence, not even asked of the strongest of men. For only a second, she took her eyes off his embroidery and looked at his face. Their eyes made contact for a split second.

She lowered her eyes again and felt the man stride forward. He reached onto his belt, pulled out a short whip, and lashed a burning line across her face.

"You have been defiant, harsha," he breathed upon me. She could hear the hatred in his voice. "You I have watched,"

She did not look at him nor his fancy clothes, but to the mountain peak where the flame of the Shaman King burned. Her spirit flew there, and she felt nothing but calm.

"Do you understand?" he spat venomously.

She fought the urge to answer him. She bit her lip again and nodded, hoping to look pathetic.

"Be here before dawn. You will work in the pace that I decree, and you will not stop until I have weighed four-and-thirty loads. If you fall, you will be forced onto you feet. If you refuse, you know the penalty." She heard him take a breath to calm himself.

"Next."

And with that, she grabbed her basket, poured the firestones into the cart, dropped the basket, and walked back to her family's tent, feeling wearier than she had ever felt.

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My face stung when I splashed the warm water on my face. I pretended not to notice, but it was really all too obvious. My brother readied a clean damp cloth and pressed it against my face.

My mother glanced at the water disapprovingly while she chopped the vegetables for dinner. "Anna, you know better than to use the water before your father and your brother. Men before harsha. That's the law,"

"It's alright, mother," my brother said quietly. He rubbed my hand gently, and I smiled gratefully.

After a moment of silence, my father spoke up. "Anna, I hear that you must bring out four-and-thirty loads tomorrow. Is this true?"

My mother paused and stared at the cut food. My brother let the cloth fall and grasped my hand tightly.

I waited a beat and gave my father a bleak smile. "Yes, father."

He sighed and covered his eyes with his hands. "Anna, why must you do such things? Why did you work slowly today?"

"Because I am sixteen today,"

"So?"

I looked at the flames and replied quietly, "The Shamans don't own all of me. I kept some of me for myself today, for rest and for joy."

My father's shoulders shook, and I do not know whether he laughed or cried. "Gods, Anna…_joy_?"

When I did not answer, he sighed and uncovered his eyes. I thought he looked even older and more exhausted than ever. "Help your mother, Anna,"

My brother released my hand and watched me as I prepared dinner. My mother leaned back against the rock wall as she watched me also. I tossed together a salad with the meager vegetables the caretakers had grown. The wheat cakes were ready by the time the salad was tossed, and I cut the cakes into uneven portions: the larger ones were intended for my father and my brother.

I then sat to the side with my mother and waited as the men took their choice pieces. This was also what bothered me: both Shaman and Itako males were referred to as men, but only Shaman females were regarded as women. Itako females were called as harsha, a supposedly rude and vulgar word in the Old Language. It was also a dream of mine that someone someday would come up to me, see my brand, and call me a woman.

By the time the men were done, my mother and I were allowed the food. I noticed, again, that both my brother and my father had left the larger pieces for us. The salad was barely touched, only a carrot or two was taken. I did not say anything, but felt both happy and sad.

I cut my cake into half and gave my mother one whole piece and half of mine. Then, I divided the salad so that my mother received most of the carrots. Carrots were not grown well in our area, mostly because of infertile soil. What carrots we did have were considered delicacies.

My mother gave small thanks and nibbled her cake. I ate my share quietly and washed the dishes when I was done. After that, I removed my boots, heated my feet, and stomped at the dirt floor, hoping to loosen the dirt for a softer surface to sleep on.

My brother started to get up to help, but I gave him a warning look: this sort of job was reserved only for Itako harsha, and since my mother was too sick, I was the only one who could do it.

Once I was done, I moved on to my father's area, then my mother's. I made sure my mother's area was the softest of all, because she suffered from back problems and had a hard time falling asleep at night.

My brother gave me a warm smile before settling into the bed. His back was to the fire, which was now dying away. I kneeled by him, feeling the familiar awkwardness that I felt every night. It was not unlawful for harsha to sleep with men…but only if you were planning to conceive child. Otherwise, it would have been very unsightly for the Shamans to find her sleeping in the same bed with a man, her brother no less.

My brother kissed my face, where the lash was, and smoothed my hair. "Sleep well, sister. You'll need your energy."

XXXXXXXX

Morning came sooner than she expected. She remained quiet for some time, laying there quietly in the warmth. Then, she sat up quietly, ignoring the herbal water, and walked outside, her boots on her feet and her coat in tow.

The air seemed fresher this time of day: she knew it wasn't yet dawn because the Shaman mansions had not begun to waft out columns of smoke. She decided to walk around for a while.

The area was quiet, but she was used to that. Itakos never really had much to say to each other, because the Shamans thought of them as unintelligent. Language was a sign of knowledge and history: the Shamans did not want any rebellions or uprisings, so they suppressed any sort of communication.

However, that did not stop her people. The Itako had songs and myths, stories and legends like and others. They knew how to dance and sing with the best of the Shamans, but they never had the energy. Even when the Shamans had their celebrations, we Itako toiled in the mines. We did not have holidays, and a day off was a dream within a dream.

Anna wandered to the end of the tents again and found herself at Jun's door. She still felt the rosary around her neck, its weight comfortable. She lifted a hand to enter…

But thought better of it. It was still too early.

Anna sighed, at a loss of anything to do. She walked farther, past Jun's tent and into the empty area, where there was nothing but snow and rock. The 'backyard of Siranjaro', some people joked. It wasn't wide, about the size of twice her tent. She walked around the area, looking at every bit of snow and rock.

Then it happened. The fear, the dread, and the trepidation of the events of this day…it all came tumbling down onto her. She struggled to breathe, but all that came out were shallow gasps.

She kneeled onto the ground, pulling on her coat for warmth. She hugged herself, mumbling words that she herself did not understand.

The voices…

She heard them again. Not loudly or clearly, but it was there. She could not make out anything, but she heard it and felt it. The humming of the earth and rock, and the voices that sang in her head…she felt calm again.

Was…was this God?

In the Itako myths, they talked of God, a powerful being who created the earth and the rock and the people. She wanted to talk to Him…her whole being screamed at Him, but none were words. How was one as her, who could not even talk to Shamans, converse with a being such as God?

"Are you there?"

It was suddenly quiet again. The humming flickered and faded, and all she saw and heard was blank. There was nothing, a void of black, the loss of all hope, all faith.

"You're a lie!" her spirit screamed. ""You're weak. Powerless. The myths say you called forth mountains: you spoke and the world was formed. If you live, do something; rescue me from the mine today,"

She waited desperately for a reply, but He was silent.

_I have challenged God._

She felt something swell up in her, a courage that was being created anew. She realized she had been crying, and wiped her tears away.

"If You are listening, it is the woman Anna who speaks," she spoke triumphantly to no one in particular.

She wheeled around and headed back to camp.

_Someone's there._

Anna froze, her keen mind immediately alert.

_Turn around…_

"Woman!"

Her heart leaped. She paused as her legs turned to stone.

_MOVE!_

She immediately made a mad dash for camp.

"No, wait…Woman!"

Anna stopped again and turned around.

A man stood there, tall and silent. He was wearing clothes she had never seen before, and he looked like no one she had ever met.

He donned a long black coat, similar to hers except that it had a taller collar. A yellow scarf peeked through, and Anna could just barely make out a hint of black pants on his legs.

But Anna's first reaction was not his clothing.

"God…"

She fell to her knees again; her arms limp at her sides.

"Come here, woman,"

He came closer and gave me his hand, to lift her up.

Without thinking, she raised her right had to greet his…

"You are harsha!"

Anna was jolted awake from her daze, and found herself gazing at his face.

_He's so handsome…_

His hands were gloved, most likely due to the weather. Her eyes scanned his face. His eyes were the deepest golden, narrowed like hers. His hair, a dark color that she could not name, was arranged in a style that she did not recognize: all the hair on his head was in a straight line, facing the sky.

But he was so beautiful.

Anna stood up and found herself stammering. "I-I am sorry, lord. I did not know…I am harsha. Sorry,"

She dared not look at his face, no matter how beautiful it was. She felt herself sink into the deepest hell, the darkest dungeon. _I have challenged God…_

The man, on the other hand, did not say anything, but seemed amused. "I was sent to find a woman, but in her stead I find a harsha. How do you explain that, Anna, daughter of the Itako?"

Anna was surprised that a Shaman such as him could speak in such a tongue. She almost looked at him, but restrained herself.

"I do not know, lord. I…I thought you were God," she admitted.

The man chuckled. "I am not so powerful. However, the one who commands your audience is."

She remained silent, and looked behind her. She felt a wave of nausea as she noticed a moving pinprick of light, wandering around the tents. She knew it was the overseer.

"Please, lord, I cannot stay. I have to leave-"

"No, stay!" he commanded, his face flushed. "Let me ask you; are there any Shaman women that come here?"

"Here, to our tents, lord?" She could not help but add a little sarcasm.

The man grinned. "Yes, harsha, here to your tents,"

"No, lord, no one comes here. Even I shouldn't be here. Please, this delay is death to me. I-"

"No!" He said again. He looked as though he were about to grab her arm. "Please listen to me. My name is Tao Ren, steward of the Shaman King and a soldier in his army. It is he who commands you,"

Anna's eyes widened, not completely taking it in. "P-Pardon?"

Tao Ren smiled grimly. "You have been summoned to be Handmaiden to the Shaman King,"

XXXXXXXX

It is two in the morning and my mind is in overdrive. I need coffee.

Here ends the first chapter of _Fire_. It's boring right now, but it'll get more exciting later. I had a hard time writing this because it was so uneventful...


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